Jasmine

Jasmine

A picture book story

by Lee C. Block

©2007 Lee C. Block

Jasmine is my dog.

Mom and Dad say Jasmine is old, and she is dying. 

I know something’s not right because Jasmine doesn’t come to the door any more when I come home from pre-school, but stays in her cubby.

And she sleeps a lot now.

And when we go for a walk we don’t go very far before she turns around to tell me it’s time to head home.

And when we sit together, her legs and head shake a lot.

And she doesn’t like going down the stairs anymore.

And she pees sometimes on the green rug in the kitchen even after she’s been outside.

And she no longer eats my socks and underwear if I forget to put them in the hamper.

And she barely barks when the mail carrier delivers the mail.

My Mom says that when Jasmine dies, she won’t be with us anymore. 


 Mom says that some people think dogs go to “Heaven.”

She and Dad, though, believe when it’s her time it’ll be like Jasmine will just go away and not come back.

But Mom says that Jasmine will always be inside our feelings.

Mom points to the picture on my dresser of Jasmine wearing her purple raincoat that we put on her when the weather is bad.

“That’s how you’ll remember her,” my Mom says as she rubs my head, “and we'll laugh at how much she complained when you put it on her.”

“And we’ll remember her as when we dressed her up in her red sweater and Dad’s beanie hat,” she said pointing to the photograph hanging on the wall.

I like that picture because it makes her look silly.

Dying does seem to mean that everyone is a little unhappy. 


I know that because my older sister starts getting sniffles and teary when Dad says that when it’s time, he and Mom will take Jasmine to see the vet. 


And Mom and Dad haven’t been laughing a lot lately.

“When it’s Jasmine’s time,” Dad says softly, “she’ll just go quietly to sleep.”

But I’m not sure what that means. 


When I go to sleep, I wake up again, just like Jasmine wakes up. 


But Dad says that when she’s ready, Jasmine won’t be waking up after that.

“It’ll be okay,” Dad says too, and he gives me a hug a little harder than he does usually.

And I heard Mom and Dad whispering today after dinner about whether they should get another dog when Jasmine dies.

I’m not sure how I feel about having another dog instead of Jasmine. 


 I just always want to have Jasmine like I know her.

Mom and Dad got Jasmine from the rescue shelter when my sister was still a little baby.

And Mom says that Jasmine has had a long and fun dog’s life with us.

I guess that’s good. 


 But I just don’t know what it’s going to be like after Jasmine dies.

Her cubby will be empty. 


And she won’t be begging for treats anymore.

I ask Mom if Jasmine will remember me when she dies.

She says, “yes,” as she tucks me in after reading me my bedtime story.

“Jasmine will remember you,” Mom says as she kisses my cheek.

“You are her favorite person because you give her a treats after her walk.”

And Mom says treats are her favorite things.

I ask Mom who will give Jasmine her treat after she dies.

She says, “Jasmine won’t need any more treats when she dies. 


And she won’t need any other food either.”

But before I can ask her about anything else, Mom puts her finger across her lips and says, “shhh. 


It’s time to go to sleep.”

Mom kisses my cheek and says, “we’ll talk more about Jasmine tomorrow.”

And my bedroom light goes out.

And I try to think what it’ll be like when Jasmine is gone. 


But then I begin to feel like I do when my sister squeezes me too hard, and I don’t like the way that feels.

So I think about the picture of Jasmine in her sweater and Dad’s hat, and I smile. 


I like that picture a lot.

Dedicated to

Jasmine Howell

1994 - 2007